


Colorblind (I'll die in a balloon)

by WhatATime



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Batfamily Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherly Love, Feels, Gen, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 00:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: Sucker punches are better in 3D. In color. Dick knows this. As he floats on the fabric sofa of his apartment, afghan draped over his middle, toes of his socks drenched, Dick knows this in the marrow of his bones. Everything is better in color. So why is the world a caramel haze? What’s he missing?





	Colorblind (I'll die in a balloon)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. I've not posted fanfic in a long while due to my focus on original projects this Summer (I've finished and started a novel since I last published). The school year is also approaching, so I might not post as frequently. This story came to me in an artistic fervor around 2:33 am while I lurked one of my flash fiction pieces for the purpose of editing and found myself muttering the phrase "I'll die in a balloon." This phrase has become a refrain in the story, hence why I included it in the title. I did it in the manner musical artists often do the same.
> 
> Anyway, the story's been Grammarly checked, so I hope the prose is intact. I also hope you enjoy the piece, as I worked on it. Also note that all the words in this piece were arranged by me alone (even the poetry).
> 
> Best wishes.

I’ll die in a balloon.

Sucker punches are better in 3D. In color. Dick knows this. As he floats on the fabric sofa of his apartment, afghan draped over his middle, toes of his socks drenched, Dick knows this in the marrow of his bones. Everything is better in color. So why is the world a caramel haze? What’s he missing?

“Ice,” Jason says. He makes the couch dip with his weight. He presses a cold compress to Dick’s raw chin. The bruise is so new it’s still pink indentations of brass knuckles. “Your freezer’s empty. You should go shopping.”

“There’s never the time.”

“Hm. Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Then hire somebody.”

“You?” Dick regrets tilting his head up. Jason’s voice rumbles and bounces within his ears. Jason’s sapphire bores holes. Dick’s always found certain shades of blue unsettling, though he’d never thought of such a thing before meeting Jason what seemed like centuries ago. “Think we’re immortal?”

“No.”

“You’re immortal.”

“Not really.”

“So I am?”

“No.”

Dick blinks and lets the skin under his eyes sag. “Will you cry at my funeral?”

“Probably not.” Jason presses the bones and thin layers of skin on the back of his right hand to Dick’s damp forehead. “Will you cry at mine?”

“Yes.”

“Like a baby?”

“Would there be any other way to do it?” Dick grins. He grins until his grin melts into an indifference that only is learned. He blinks. “Why’s the world sepia?”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “You see colors?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

“It’s all caramel, Jay… yellow… ugly…”

“That’s too bad.”

“Isn’t it?”

***

I’ll die in a balloon.

“I’m sorry you’ll die young,” Dick whispers. His fingers sift through Damian’s silky hair, pull back the bangs before they can fall in front of the boy’s face. He tickles Damian’s jawbone with his breathing. He won’t watch the movie. It’s no fun when the shades are off.

Damian refuses to divorce the television screen where a dismembered man screams for his mother in the highest definition of color. Death smells like cinnamon stick cookies that gore sprinkles itself on. “What did you say, Richard?”

Dick catches himself (who else will). “Nothing.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“I’m sorry you’ll die young.”

“I don’t think I’ll die too young, Lil’ D.”

Damian’s lashes lower. “Very well.”

***

I’ll die in a balloon.

“He’s been airy lately… withdrawn.”

“Withdrawn?”

“Withdrawn.”

“Evidence?”

“No documented hugs in the 53 hours he’s been home. Listening to music while working in the cave. Uneven bar during tea time. Hasn’t checked the grapple lines once— must I go on?”

“You’ve made a case. Permission to pursue.”

“That’s not what I’m asking for, Bruce.”

“What’s this about, then?” Bruce finally stops typing to look up at Tim, who’s also stopped. The cave is dark. Only Bruce and Tim are present besides the squeaks above. It’s early (1:37). It’s that awkward time in the night where it’s very late but a good night’s sleep is possible depending on one’s schedule and willingness, neither of which work in Tim or Bruce’s favor. It’s twenty-three minutes before Alfred suggests bed with a platter of sedative laced delicacies and decaffeinated coffee.

“You need to talk to him. He might be depressed.”

“If Dick’s having problems—”

“He wouldn’t come talk to you.”

Bruce lets out a breathy sigh because he knows Tim is right, and he’d really like another cup of coffee. Bruce lets this sigh carry the conversation until Dick Grayson purposefully rattles out of the cave elevator with three identical navy mugs of what smells like coffee. “Dick,” he says.

“Bruce,” Dick replies.

“Dick,” Tim says.

Bruce takes a mug. Dick takes a mug. Tim takes a mug.

Dick sits. Tim closes his laptop. Bruce swirls his chair to face them.

“How’s Blud been?” Bruce asks.

“Fine.” Dick sips.

Bruce pursues this line of questioning until Dick’s slurping.

***

I’ll die in a balloon.

When do you think it’s time to say sorry? When you remove your tracker? When you hide in a safe house that only makes you anxious? When do you think it’s time to say sorry?

Dick’s eyes are crusty from all the sepia. He wants color. He wants red and blue. He wants white lightning. He wants crackle and pop and sound because Sepia can apparently transfer to the other senses. He wants red and blue and crackle and pop and salty and butter and fluffy and bumpy and popcorn and maple syrup. He thinks he used to have them, but it’s been so long he doesn’t remember.

Dick has a phone. Dick has a phone and a wad of money and a fleece blanket. Dick wraps himself in the fleece blanket, tells his toes to stop peeking from under it and disturbing the warmth. Dick tells his phone to stop ringing and the money to go back to the bank where it belongs. 

Nothing is right. Nothing is his. Nothing is fair.

Dick is in a hot air balloon that only goes up and sucks all from the world to leave Sepia in its wake. Dick’s life is a funeral: rainy, dark, somber, ironic. Dick would like to get off the balloon. Jumping has never worked, though, has it?

Dick tells his phone to stop ringing once again. It’s annoying. He’s not a Robin anymore. He doesn’t like chirping. Dick asks the phone if it will stop if he picks it up. Dick tries.

_ “Dick?” _

Radio silence is my best friend.

_ “Dick, where are you?” _

Radio silence is my best friend. You can’t track radio silence. Dick’s made sure of it.

_ “Dick, are you there?” _

“I’m here.”

_ “Where are you?” _

Dick doesn’t know who’s talking to him right now. It all sounds the same thanks to Sepia: bland and foolishly caring. He wants to know who’s talking, though. Then he’ll know how to respond. He doesn’t like to scare his little siblings. “Who is this?”

_ “Bruce.” _

“Hm. Fun.”

_ “Are you okay?” _

Dulled edges, but I’ll be— “Okay, B. I’m okay.”

_ “Where are you?” _

“Dark room somewhere in Blud.”

_ “Send me the address.” _ Bats always know where they are.

Radio silence broke up with me. Said I’m too clingy.

_ “Dick.” _

“Yeah?”

_ “Send me the address., okay?” _

“Okay.”

***

I’ll die in a balloon.

“What’s this for?” Bruce lifts a wad of cash with his index finger and thumb. He kneels instead of crouching (has a bad knee). He looks up at Dick. “Hm?”

“I dunno. Just mattress money. You know I despise banks.” Dick smiles, crinkling the purple bruises under his unrested eyes.

“You okay?”

“Tired.”

“Just tired?” 

“Just tired.”

Bruce sits beside Dick against the wall, wraps an arm to keep his son from falling apart. “You seem a bit more than tired, Dick.”

“No… Just tired.” Dick’s head tilts until it’s resting on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce’s soft shoulder with fuzzy, loose lint-free cashmere decorating it. “Just tired, B.”

“Tired of?”

Dick counts a breath. _ 1\. 2. 2. 1. 1. 2. 2. 1. _ It’s shallow enough not to worry Bruce, but deep enough to offer some relief. “I’ll die in a balloon,” he whispers to Bruce.

“What?”

“I’ll die in a balloon.”

“What’s that mean?”

Dick closes his eyes and wills his body to float, limpen. “What do you see when you look out the window, Bruce?”

“The sky.”

“And what color is it?”

“Black with white light.”

“The stars all look yellow, to me.”

“Stars are technically yellow.”

“Everything is. The world is sepia.” A caramelized haze. Haze. Haze. Not clear. “Nothing’s clear.”

“Fuzzy?” Bruce asks, eyes slotting over.

“Fuzzy.” 

“We can fix that.”

> _I’ll die in a balloon if_
> 
> _you choose to sleep_
> 
> _on the fact that the_
> 
> _sky is green and I_
> 
> _wouldn’t be able to _
> 
> _avoid the sun if you_
> 
> _didn’t ground me._
> 
> _Colorblind, am I not?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm glad you got the whole way through. Feel free to come find me on tumblr at whatatime30 or to leave a comment if you've something to say about "Colorblind (I'll die in a balloon)."


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